


Tales from Ostwick

by MidgetBanana



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Daddy Issues, Family Issues, M/M, Power Dynamics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, asshole characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidgetBanana/pseuds/MidgetBanana
Summary: A bit of backstory I scribbled for Robin Trevelyan which was too long to include in "Price of Freedom"





	Tales from Ostwick

Robin wasn't a particularly handsome man. He used to be, back when he was younger. Now it felt like he lived a couple of hundred lives already, and it showed. He had a rather sharp jawline, as did everyone in their family. It was the second most dominant feature of Trevelyans, right after the red hair shining like a proud pinnacle of their heritage and freckles covering their fair skin. Robin wouldn't look so clean now with his skin carved with scars and sunburn tinting him few shades too dark for Trevelyan standards. Eye bags blending with his eyeliner provided a natural purple shade around his eyes served as a constant reminder of his deprivation and he despised it. His greasy, persistently messy hair was the ruins of the red, strong waves that had once belonged to a little adolescent boy. It was unfitting of a Trevelyan to look anything less than perfectly kept. Even his father, a delirious, deranged man that he was, never let it leak through his image. Always shaved clean, hair dividend in the middle and combed back perfectly so that not even one stray broke free. The burn covering half of his cheek powdered with finest Orlesian cosmetics. Everything was so… perfect. Flawless. Robin was a sharp contrast of his family, in every possible way. 

The prettiest amongst them was the oldest of his sisters, Astrid. The gleaming jewel of House Trevelyan, her face was an empty wall. A pretty painting that would enhance your living room but nothing more. She never smiled, never cried. When she hold her stillborn in her arms, she didn't flinch. Following year, she looked at her second son, crying with the agony of breathing air for the first time, with the same cold, dead eyes she spared to his early brother’s tiny inanimate body. She told Robin “One day he will join you as you carry the sword etched with the insignia of our forefathers, the most holy, and bring heretics to justice. He will be a great warrior or he will perish.” The baby died three years after. It wasn't heresy which took his life, it was a pig. 

In her youth, Astrid had risen through the ranks of the Chantry surprisingly fast, only few votes, and bribes, short of becoming the youngest Mother in Free Marches. She had left her duty of Sisterhood on Lord Trevelyans “request”. Being the eldest daughter, she was wed to a wealthy Orlesian noble. Robin had pitied the man, he wasn’t too bad looking, a chevalier, but next to his sister he looked a little better than a mabari hound. 

Robin had learned his first Orlesian from him, when he had a bit too much Antivan white, “Va te faire foutre, sale garce!” he had kindly dismissed Astrid. And told Robin how much Trevelyans irked him. “Bâtards fous!” he had called his family “qui sans âme!”. Robin would agree.

Much like the rest of his siblings, Robin’s betrothed was handpicked for him at his birth. A lovely girl called Lisa from Anderfels. Robin had met her at his seventh birthday. A ball and a celebration of union between two houses. Lisa had stole strawberry raisin from kitchen and they ate them under the table as her father assured Lord Trevelyan that no magic had touched their bloodline indeed. 

That had been the first and last time Robin had ever seen the girl he was expected to share his life with. Now, he could only recall the long golden waves falling to her waist gleaming in the candle lights of the ball but nothing else.

As a teenager, Robin had enjoyed the attention he received from women. Although he didn’t enjoy women. He thought, maybe, he could’ve made it work with his betrothed. It was a funny idea he entertained on his free time. Obviously, his nobility was revoked with his first step into the gates of Ostwick Circle. But had he not been a mage, a mutual arrangement between a husband and wife would be the best scenario that would come out of his life. If she could find a redhead to pass her time with, children wouldn’t be a problem either. Ideally, Robin would prefer the Trevelyan line died with him. He wasn’t like Dorian, he had never been the starchild of his family, he hadn’t been required to compete, or to impress. He had never felt the need to. He had been another trade deal to be made, and that was all. 

He could scarcely recall the time he spent with his family. His most pleasant memory with his father was when he had showed off his skill with a sword. When he was done, he had felt the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly before letting go. He felt pride swell in him like no other time in his life. He must’ve been ten at that time. A little brat playing war. He was going to be a templar like his siblings before him. In a year. Funny how tricky fate can be. He’d made a decent enough templar.

* * *

 

Even at his youth, Robin rarely saw his siblings. The eldest two twins were already long wed and moved on, his sisters and brothers whom came to age given to the Chantry for education and his only little brother kept at their estate in Ostwick for nurture. The pride of his family lied with the name, not with bonds. Even so, Robin always felt closest to Hjálmar. What he lacked in repose, he made up with his skills in battle. He was an exemplary Templar in all accounts. Stern but merciful, strong but kind. 

The unspoken black sheep of Trevelyan’s was Bjørn before Robin stole his throne. As opposed to the strength in his given name, he was a gentle soul, not much caring to the role he was expected to play. Bjørn and Hjálmar were inseparable. They would get themselves in all kinds of trouble. Although Bjørn was just as noble, he seldom indulged himself in finer things in life. Women, wine and small secluded parties that he got dragged into by Hjálmar never appeased him quite as much. He was exquisite with a bow and piano, and everyone admired his tunes. 

The instrument decorating vestibule was reserved for perfection and not practice. The only time Robin’s fingers touched the keys were the summer solstice of the year he turned nine. It was an exceptionally hot day and him and Bjørn were left behind to man the mansion. He let Robin sit beside him and taught him how to play. 

Bjørn, following Hjálmar, joined Templars the year Robin got sent off to the Circle. He gave his life in civil war.


End file.
